


The Idea of Us

by Luckyfirerabbit



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Recovery, Reluctant Vulnerability, Tender loving care, Whump, being vulnerable with each other, brief trauma induced mutism, description of torture, talking about our problems, they're married your honor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:01:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29244720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luckyfirerabbit/pseuds/Luckyfirerabbit
Summary: (Taken from the Shatranj continuity, but you don't need to read it to enjoy this) A self indulgent piece where Striga is tortured and Morana gets to take care of her when it's over. Nothing too complex or well thought out, they're soft with each other and that's what matters.
Relationships: Morana/Striga (Castlevania)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	The Idea of Us

It had taken three nights to find this place, to follow the piss poor trail left behind by a foolhardy wizard and his associate, and now, _finally_ , Morana had a face at which to direct her rage and disgust. This...this arrogant, shameless, _worm of a man_ had the unmitigated gall to commit a capital sin against Styria, against the Council of Sisters -against _her_ \- and showed absolutely no remorse now as she has him on his knees in the dirt with his too-proud chin clutched in her hand.

A wizard, he had proclaimed when Morana and several of her shadows stormed his sanctum -little more than a glorified hole in the ground- but that had done nothing to deter Morana's mad resolve to subdue him. Wizard or no, he was still just a _man_ , and that would never be enough to endure when the night chose to stretch out its hand.

Morana would see him dead tonight, rest assured. She had sworn to it the instant she realized Striga had gone missing, before she even knew there was a culprit and not just sad misfortune snatching her love away. But now that she had him, the stench of Striga's blood on him and all throughout this space, her mind buzzes with the countless ways she considered ending his miserable existence. So many methods to choose from, and part of her frets that not a one of them would sate her fury well enough. Like an inferno, this _parasite_ would be little more than kindling to its roaring consumption. But _oh_ to watch him _burn_...

"We found the other one, madam."

Her head swivels sharply to look over her shoulder, to see the source of the pitiful blubbering that now echoed in the roughly hewn earthen chamber. Another _man_ , this one little more than a boy and streaked with dirt and tears -maybe he tried to dig his way out. He's terrified. Good. He would die too, most definitely, and she would see to it that terror is the last thing that sniveling bastard feels. Bringing her attention back to the wizard at her feet, she is keen to the lessened pride on his face. Perhaps he had finally accepted the reality of his situation?

She studies him a moment longer, trying to decide what facet of herself she wishes to allow him to see. Reflexively she thinks to display the interrogator -cool, calm, unreadable- but sweet mercy the _rage_ roiling in her makes her body want to shake and she wants to simply rip him apart. So she crafts something new, a finely tuned mixture of the two, and schools her expression into something quietly sharp. Her pupils thin to near invisibility and her lips flare gently to reveal her fangs.

"Where is she?" a stable, frigid hiss.

"Back of the tunnel." he says without hesitation, neutral, almost like this wasn't any fun for him anymore. "Won't you let the boy go? This was my plot, he's just a foolish child."

"And he shall pay for his foolishness, just as you will." because that young man reeked of vampire blood as well. A great deal of it. If she had cared to look, she would find it fresh on his hands, and her anger would have likely proved too great to stop.

"Then I kill it."

Morana tenses, though it doesn't translate in a visible way. Her hand drops from his face and falls to her side, fingers half curling. For a moment they simply exchange looks; Morana is measuring whether or not he's bluffing, and he is waiting to see what she'll do.

"I could do it with a thought, so, unless you like the idea of watching that thing's brains leaking from its ears, you'll release the boy."

Her reflexive response is to call him a liar, but she can hear his heart, and though it is quick, it is steady. He's telling the truth. Her eyes thin on him. "She lives?"

"In so much as the undead _can_ , yes." he rolls his eyes and nods.

"I shall see for myself."

"Then you will let him go?"

"Depending on what I find." Morana says with a certain finality. "Taubert, with me."

Morana takes the passage with long, quick and sure strides, chin tucked and eyes ahead as she makes the few cutting turns towards the tunnel's far end. Taubert's steps are faster, like she has to try to keep up -by all rights she should be taking the lead, looking out for anything dangerous, but she is presently more afraid of crossing Morana's peripherals than she is of any traps that wizard might have laid.

It's easy enough to find where it looked to be where the wizard and his associate did most of their work, at the far end of the of the passage that has clearly been carved out by hand or some other unnatural means. There are torches, tables and bookshelves and countless alchemical tools and the stench of sulfur and blood and _sweet mercy, what have they done_...

Morana's heart stops but her feet keep moving, faster still as she crosses what feels like the yawning leagues between her and Striga. The first thing that draws her attention is the blood, old and fresh, striped down the front of her. It's smeared around Striga's slackened jaw, all down her throat and chest and stomach, in her clothes that also appeared to be half...melted, and there's a half-congealed pool of it in the dirt between her knees. Her knees...she's on her knees and restrained to what looks like little more than a common hitching post anchored in the dirt, a combination of rope and manacles binding her to it in a cruel and unyielding uprightness. Straps of leather keep her head up, keep her jaws apart, allowing Morana an unhindered view of the absolute mess the wizard had made. It couldn't have been more than hours ago at most, none of it had begun to heal yet.

Morana all but crashes to her knees in front of her, hands trembling and fighting to find something to do as her heart rate climbs and pounds through her. "Please, darling, open your eyes. My love, please,"

Finally her hands find purpose, talons immediately beginning to shred through the hemp fibers she finds at Striga's throat. Then the leather comes apart with muffled snaps and Striga's head drops, Morana catching her to lay gently against her shoulder with a worried noise. " _Please_." she begs again in a whisper, thoughtlessly stroking Striga's hair. Striga doesn't stir, doesn't react, completely still.

Taubert is doing her damnedest to break the other restraints, her progress showing by degrees as more of Striga's great weight sinks forward. Morana takes it easily, carefully, and when it seems the job is done, she pushes against her lover's body that she might take better stock of her. Now she can see that Striga's powerful hands are covered in blood as well, so much that it's impossible to see the source. When Morana couldn't make sense of it, her mind shifted to something else; how could this happen?

"Sister,"

Morana's gaze cuts over Striga's shoulder to Taubert, then she wordlessly follows the line of Taubert's attention...what on earth...

There are faint flickers of a pale green glow in Striga's hair, and upon a closer look, a gentle turning of her head against Morana's shoulder, she can see that the lights make a complete circle, and have the distinct if phantasmal shape of twisting thorns. Like a crown. The leather strap had concealed it before, otherwise Morana was certain she would have noticed it immediately. Trouble darkens and pulls Morana's expression.

"Magic?" Taubert asks.

It had to be, she thinks, but doesn't realize that the words don't manifest. It's the only thing that makes any real sense to her -it was the only way that fool could have had any hopes of doing this and getting away with it. To get away with thralling Striga and treating her like an animal.

Morana's fury growls bigger and brighter inside of her, and now she knows how she wants to kill him. Provided she can do what she needs to, as she has never tried it like this before.

"Bring them to me." Morana says abruptly, yet Taubert is quick to respond.

Morana carefully navigates her wife's weight around, turning Striga gently so she is no longer on her knees but resting more on one hip in the dirt. Still cradling her head, Morana pulls the sable strands away from her pale forehead, revealing more twisting thorns made of light. Morana reaches deep down into herself, searching for the feeling she knows when she pulls on magic, and tries to reach out with it, to channel it through her fingers. It's one thing for her to catch something cast to her, it's another to try and reel it in, which is what she is attempting now. First it catches on her talon, drawing away in a thread from Striga's skin. It resists at first, like the thread is caught, but a little effort on her part proves enough to loosen it again. Little by little the crown begins to unravel.

When the last of it spools out of sight and into her hand, Morana feels it tugging at her consciousness, tempting it down, down, to wherever it demands one's will be sequestered when it takes control. It's an effort to maintain, but her focus holds true. Something that's made monumentally easier as Striga finally moves. It's a small thing, a slow and full expansion of her ribcage with a breath, but it is more than before and Morana is grateful.

But the gratitude becomes mixed with worry as that small thing ceases to be small. Striga's body starts jerking with unsure movement, her face lining with something painful as she roughly buries her face into Morana's neck. Those big arms circle her quickly and tightly, but Morana can feel her powerful, bloodied hands hovering away, shaking impossibly hard, as if Striga couldn't stand for them to touch _anything_. Striga's breathing roughens, quickens, and she shakes with silent sobs.

"All will be well, love. I'm here for you." Morana whispers, hoping her heartbreak isn't audible.

"Sister,"

What softness Striga had pulled up in Morana quickly vanishes at the sound of Taubert's voice, of the commotion of moving bodies and of foolish men talking. What kindness remains is given to her wife, careful words and motions to lay Striga down with an assurance that she would swiftly return to her once the work was done. And Morana means for it to be short.

Her shadows hold the wizard well in place when Morana stands and resolutely approaches. She will make time to revel in this particular chain of events later, but for now she simply makes note of the color draining from his face. He must know, she thinks briefly, he must know what she means to do and she hopes he's properly terrified. Morana locks her eyes on him, and somehow he meets her, as she reaches out one taloned hand to snatch him soundly by the face, her palm muffling his scream as the magic she had collected coils and then arcs across the connection at her behest.

There is sound resistance from the wizard, like a stone wall threatening to topple over on her, but Morana refused to yield. All the rage and heartache she has felt for the last three nights, and the volatile mixture it had become just in the last few moments bolsters her will and forces it all back onto the wizard, and his mind collapses beneath the weight.

The glowing crown of thorns materializes, the green light even filling his irises. When Morana withdraws her hand he is silent, pliant, awaiting her command. She takes one step closer, too close under any other circumstances, but she wants to be sure he sees her, is paying close attention.

"You will kill the boy." She says softly, to begin. "You will disembowel him, _slowly_ , and once he is dead, you will do the same to yourself."

Morana bids the shadows to release him, wholly pleased to see him go about his task without hesitation though it doesn't show on her face. She watches him approach one of the tables in the room, fetching a tool -a knife perhaps, not that it mattered- and made measured, steady steps toward his young associate who know sputtered and thrashed against the powerful arms of the vampires holding him.

Among the screams of that young alchemist, Morana and Taubert worked quickly but carefully to retrieve Striga and help her out of the cave. Her big boots drag the ground as she tries to walk, eventually giving up entirely as they reach the mouth of the cavern where horses wait.

"Send a shadow on behind me." Morana commands, now securely in the saddle with Striga behind her, draped over her back in a half-conscious slump. "You stay and make sure everything is collected and brought back to the palace. I want to know what they were working on."

"Yes, Sister."

_(II)_

The resident magicians assured Morana and her sisters that there was nothing left of the wizard's magic, or any residual components of alchemy on or in Striga. They were resolutely confident and, for the time being, she believed them.

Morana doesn't know if she should be worried, or what exactly she should be worried about. What they were able to glean from the confiscated material in the cave, it seemed that the wizard and his...friend?...were conducting a battery of experiments. Over the course of the next few nights the wizard's journals were steadily deciphered -the alchemist apparently hadn't bothered with using a code of any kind- and it appeared they were working jointly on a serum of immortality, but also ways of recreating weapons against the undead without the intervention of the church. Perhaps, under any other circumstances, Morana would have been terribly intrigued by the multiple implications of such research, but at present she could only regard it with bitter disdain.

_They...harvested **pieces**. Tore my love apart._ The fury in her is fresh and caustic, part of her is loathing how lenient she had been with their execution.

Still, the research is copied and archived for closer study at a later date, and the collection of...components were stored under lock and key. No point in wasting any of it, though it would be a considerably long while before Morana would ever be able to even think about it without having the urge to scream.

Morana has Striga sleeping in her bed; there was still work to be done and neither their shared chambers nor Striga's personal room had what she needed to accomplish anything. Plus it was easy enough to put down whatever she was doing to see to her wife's needs. And, perhaps, if having Morana's scent all about her couldn't rouse her to greater awareness, it could nurture a more restful sleep.

And she does indeed _sleep_. Striga sleeps day and night, heals, seeming only to wake for the briefest of moments to feed and perhaps take silent stock of her surroundings before dropping back into unconsciousness. At least that is how it appeared the few times Morana had caught her awake. Those once brilliant green eyes were open but dim and they seemed to scan the room, no acknowledgment to Morana or her presence, and then the lids drift closed and she stills again. When Striga wakes to feed, her awareness is...thready at best. She actually sits up, makes noises that aren't quite words as she fusses mindlessly with the absolute mess of her hair, her whole body seeming too heavy and only partly within her own control. Morana is sure to acknowledge her, shows she is paying attention regardless of a lack of response, and simply makes a habit of offering her blood. Striga usually takes it, drinking it all without hesitation or hurry before dragging herself back under the covers to mentally vanish again.

When dawn approaches, Morana concedes to go through her usual preparations for bed, and she joins Striga with the utmost care so as not to disturb her. Somehow she is able to wrap herself around her wife's much larger, sprawled frame with little to no reaction, that is until Morana stills, then Striga unconsciously turns to pull her in. Still no words, no sign of consciousness, but there's this, her embrace, and that gives Morana hope enough to sleep.

Three more nights went by like this, each sunset bringing with it more promising circumstances than the last. The first held longer moments of wakefulness, of clarity. Still no words, though Striga takes her wife's hand and meets her gaze, seeming to be more like herself but in a hazy, uncertain way. Like there were pieces of Striga on display, in their right places but without others to join them together to stabilize her and make her real. And that seemed to be what Striga was trying to tell Morana with her eyes, that she was broken and aware of it and trying to...not be.

The next night Morana finds Striga out of bed, a blanket wrapped around her still naked body as she perches out on the railing of Morana's balcony. Morana took a moment to just study her from the bed, to try and read something, anything about her current state, but gains little more insight than she had already. Striga looked far and away from herself, neither at ease or distressed. Wholly, apathetically neutral. But Striga would remain awake for most of the night, irregularly wandering from the bed to the balcony. No explanation, not even when Morana gently requests one. Striga just looks at her with something resembling shame and a wary vulnerability that the good lady reads as a desire but overwhelming inability to speak. Morana won't ask about it again, not tonight, and instead offers to have dinner sent up that they might dine together. Striga shakes her head before retreating back to bed.

The third night seemed a little better still, all things considered. Striga was awake and sitting up when Morana rose, looking surprisingly lucid and even offering a small, missable smile that made Morana's pulse jump. Morana feels as though she can relax -honestly relax- for the first time, and tries to hold onto that fresh comfort.

"Would you let me comb your hair, love?" she asks gently.

It takes a moment, consideration flickering in varying degrees across Striga's face, but she will eventually nod, absently pushing a hand over her head as if to make her unkempt state more real to herself. The way her green eyes widen for a second suggests she succeeded.

This is familiar, comfortable, and Morana is happy to be here like this with her after what felt like a short eternity in fearful free-fall. She starts carefully with her hands, threading her fingers through Striga's hair, mindful of how she touches on the chance she disturbs anything -like everything they had yet to discuss. Though she finds reassurance in the soft, sighing rumble Striga makes.

Morana is smiling again. "Perhaps after this we could get some clothes on you." And her levity wavers when there is no discernible response. She thinks it better to focus on her task, to take this one thing at a time.

After a few passes of her fingers, Morana retrieves a comb and tentatively starts repeating her earlier motions. There aren't many knots for the ivory to catch on, and for that, Morana is grateful. After a moment or two it became less about grooming Striga and more about simply interacting with her, and Morana carefully allows the smooth teeth of the comb to push down the silvery skin of her wife's back. She can see the gooseflesh rising, and feels another touch of comfort after another soft rumble.

"May I touch you?" it's barely above a whisper, laced with hope and hesitation. She's ready to accept denial, but wishing that she won't have to. She feels an unconscious tension in her body loosen when Striga nods.

Morana is careful, as always, and starts small. Setting the comb aside she continues with her fingers like before, pulling smoothly through sable strands before tucking her hands beneath them, now skin-to-skin as her knuckles drag gently along the furrow of Striga's spine. Striga's body expands and contracts with a deep, measured breath, and Morana takes that as something good.

She steadily increases the contact, eventually turning her hands over to map out muscles with the flat of her palms. Morana keeps her talons up, unsure if feeling something sharp would go over well, and feeling herself bearing her fangs as that scene in the wizard's cave flickered through her mind momentarily. Then Morana takes a chance to lean forward, pressing the gentlest of kisses to Striga's back before resting her forehead against the spot, her hands coming to rest in the spaces between her wife's ribs. She feels a flickering tension beneath her hands, but it's there and gone again.

Morana takes a breath much the same, slow, steadying, but it isn't very helpful, actually. As the last of the air slips from her lungs she feels a thickness surging in her throat. She swallows against it to no avail, and then her ribs clench hard enough to pull lines in her brow. "I'm sorry." she isn't thinking about the words, only the need for them to exist. "I'm sorry I couldn't find you sooner...that I couldn't stop them."

At first there's nothing. No reaction. Then Morana feels those muscles beneath her hands popping again, this time holding firm. She senses the abrupt, sharp twist of the energy in the room, from wary yet languid, to something raw and jagged.

The rest of Striga's body tenses, tenses hard, and Morana pulls back. Then Striga pull herself to stand, pulling one of the blankets with her to jerk it around herself. Her steps are unsteady, but it's obvious Striga means to head for the door. Morana is quick on her own feet to pursue.

"Striga, please," she can't help herself, reaching out to just touch Striga's tight bicep only to see her wife shy away as if it's painful, her already sharp features pulled tighter and with flickers of teeth. Morana freezes in place, helpless as Striga all but rips the door open and disappears beyond it.

_(III)_

Striga has sequestered herself in her room, her personal chambers. She has a fire crackling in the hearth and sits uncomfortably tight on herself on the bear skin rug, her hands tucked inside the blanket as she manically spins her ring. She's been doing this for hours now -or was it nights-, no knowing how many.

This is not just for the isolation. She needs the solitude, sure enough, but she also needed to feel grounded, and that meant being surrounded by parts of _her_ , her own belongings -as few as they are- her own scent, her own _space_ where she feels the most secure. Part of her needs to be able to hold onto the idea of who she is so as not to become lost in the trauma. Because a part of her feels like it has happened before, and she didn't wish for that to happen again, not now when she has so much to lose.

There's a place in Striga's mind where the terrible things go until she is ready to face them, though she cannot readily access that shadowy region of her own volition. She is aware of it as one is aware of poison in their blood, there and not there, or like a rumor, something second-hand. It behaves on its own, but has behaved faithfully to keep the more awful parts of Striga's life hidden until her mind is less tender. These last few nights had simply been her trying to find her pieces and put them back together, to find some semblance of order in herself in unconscious preparation to face what she had endured. There had been a comfortable shroud of forgetfulness about her -she was still fully aware of the toll on her body, but not where it came from. A blissful half-ignorance.

And she hadn't been ready. Striga knows - _knows_ \- her wife meant no harm in saying those things, in making those apologies, but it was just too soon and it left Striga feeling painfully raw.

Striga will apologize, swears she will, but later. After all this.

Her hands pause though they still shake, fingers half laced together before she brings her hands up to cover her face. Tension mounts, her frame seeming to expand and shrink at the same time as she appears to try and turn further inward. Her fingers curl against her face as the sound of her own screams echo in her head, and that shaking radiates outward from her hands to encompass her entirely.

She had only screamed once, when the wizard successfully thralled her after a number of attempts. By then her mind was taxed much too far and her brain was burning, and the magic taking hold felt like claws rooting in her flesh.

_"Do be quiet now."_ he had commanded casually, as if it were nothing. _"There's much work to do."_

And the wizard went about his work while the alchemist brought out his tools to begin his own. From then on she _couldn't_ scream. The wizard had given an order and she had no will to disobey.

Now she's thinking about the post against her back, the tearing tightness in her shoulders from the restraints - _the rope around your fucking neck to keep you still_ \- and then the cold, cruel iron of pliers in her mouth.

And not a peep to be heard over any of it. Perfectly silent, perfectly still, she didn't even breathe.

Now she remembers choking on her own blood, wanting nothing more than to squirm at the feeling of it oozing down her own throat and soaking into her own clothes. The pounding of her own heart that pulsed painfully in her jaws, in the open sockets of where her fangs had once been. Those phantom sensations spill into others, the corresponding regions of her body throbbing in observance. Her hands ached, her fingertips tender to the touch, a shadow of the lesson that vampire claws were an alchemical component of some importance. Then her chest comes alight with a deep, _deep_ burning; the alchemist had made countless compounds that the wizard only ever called "sewage", and when he wasn't ripping out her teeth or her fingernails -or force feeding her blood to make parts grow back- he saw fit to test them on her.

Striga had been convinced, up until that moment, that _nothing_ could hold a candle to the burn of sanctified water. Now she knew far better, and now that she was actively remembering all of it, her nerves screamed with the knowledge.

She needs time, she knows that's all she needs -never mind whether she could faithfully keep track of it- but mercy it feels like forever. For the while she can consciously feel it, that is.

After that she can only mark time in spurts, in fleeting moments of being present where she can discern changes like where she is in the room. Part of her is certain that she had dozed off on the bear skin at some point, and woke with only mild confusion in the big chair just an arm's reach away. She takes a moment to feel the furs draped across the back, to absently run her hands over the upholstery while her tongue thoughtlessly runs over her teeth, checking. The last thing she remembers of that moment is taking a big breath and adjusting her position.

The next moment she finds herself sprawled on the loveseat across from the chair, the blanket twisted up around her waist and thighs in a way she hates. With a mindless meanness she jerks it away, jack-knifing off the sofa to fetch her something of her own to wear, roomy trousers and a coat she had taken off a bandit...years ago. Yes, she remembered that. But the coat had been altered; now it fits her better, something else she remembers when she pulls it on after running her fingers over the rich, glossy embroidery of a raven across the back. Now she's thinking about Lenore's pet raven and how she missed him sometimes. Birds only lived so long.

Striga wanders the room, her hands crossed over her chest to hold the lapels of the coat closed, almost like she's embracing herself. Her sense of presence starts to spool out again when she lingers by the hearth, focusing almost too intently on the little carvings she kept on the mantle. It was something else to think about, so her mind latched onto it -a distraction while it tidied up the mess. Then she goes to the bookshelves beside her desk, leaning against them, propping her forehead against the polished wood and taking in the smell of old books and dust. Fingertips sliding over worn leather spines is strangely comforting, grounding. And the scent of books...

Her wife's name pulses through Striga's mind like a tender heartbeat, but it's not as soothing as usual. It threatens to pull all those wounds open again, so on a protective reflex Striga pulls away from the shelves and starts to spin her ring anew to distract herself. Eventually she wanders to the bed and climbs into it, hands still fussing with the gold band on her finger until everything sort of...fades. She has no way of knowing how long she sleeps this time, and her slumber is fitful with terrible dreams, all of them mixtures of different times and places and people and trauma. She wakes in spurts, moments much too small to do anything of merit other than change the position in which she lay.

When Striga wakes again, it's sudden and complete -she is _wide_ awake and lucid now- and the confusion of being back in the big chair beside the hearth without knowing how she got there is wholly overtaken by the confusion of finding herself with company. She reflexively meets Morana's eyes with her own, taking in the sight of her there in her nightgown, half bent down as she is in the midst of draping a blanket over her. She's frozen like a prey animal and looking ready to bolt.

"I-I'm sorry." a hesitant, quiet exhale. "I just wanted...I haven't...I didn't mean to wake you."

Striga says nothing and she feels guilty about it, and thinks it might be showing in whatever expression her features may have turned into.

"It's been nights since I've seen you." Morana's voice is steadier but still soft. Her blue eyes flit from Striga to her own hands and back again, and then she unsteadily follows through with her original intent to lay the blanket across Striga's lap. She straightens, shifts uncomfortably for all of three seconds, then nods stiffly and turns on her heels. She takes one hurried step before she feels a big hand circle her wrist. In the next instant she's being pulled and follows willingly until Striga's powerful arms sweep around her and hold her tight. It squeezes something out of her, a pitiful, vulnerable sound that Morana doesn't try to hide as she buries her face in Striga's collar, her hands gripping the lapels of the coat like it's her only hope.

Something caves in Striga; she doesn't know why or what to call it, but holding Morana has done something that she refuses to shy away from. Part of her needs this, because Morana is a part of her too, has become an integral part of the idea of her, and it's only now that she fully realizes it. When the initial shock of stimulus passes, one big hand gently cradles the back of Morana's neck, and her nose drops to her wife's silken hair to greedily take in her scent. And they stay this way for...it doesn't matter.

In time Morana will tip up her chin, lifting her eyes to see Striga's face, her own expression turning frail and pleading at seeing the deep, heavy and distressed creases her wife carries. Her only thought is to touch -she can't help herself, it's how she cares, how she loves loudest- and tentatively reaches up. Her heart clenches at the way Striga tenses, how she can see on Striga's face that she's bracing for something, and waits. Her hand remains near, a silent offering for Striga to accept or deny.

Striga swallows hard. She's wrestling with wants and warnings in her mind; she wants Morana's touch, has missed it terribly, but it's just as terrible as the warning. Part of her is convinced it will hurt to be touched, because everything that has gone near her face recently has done nothing but cause her pain. But Morana would never....but it hurt so _bad_ ...but _Morana_...

Striga takes Morana's hand with one of her own and holds it steady as she quickly leans in. At first her brow furrows and she scowls, as if there is actually something like pain in it, but the moment is brief and her scowl loosens into a raw but sated thing. Striga holds her hand there as she nuzzles closer, chancing a hesitant kiss to the heel of Morana's palm, then to the ring on her small finger -hesitant because there were more warnings about pain, about that haunting throbbing in her teeth that she had been having nightmares about.

Morana's fingers gently curl along the slope of her neck, beckoning Striga's attention which she is slow to give.

"I know...you need your solitude. I respect that. But," Morana takes a second to weigh the words she has, to try a little harder not to burst into tears this instant. "Can I not do more for you?"

Striga gives her a sad, heartbreaking look before shaking her head.

Morana's face scrunches tighter, painful looking. "Won't you speak to me, love? Have I done something?"

Striga's ribs threaten to turn inward and crush onto themselves. She is quick to shake her head again, Morana's hand still well held to her face.

"Then, please, say something. _Anything_. I beg you." Because all this time it had felt like being in love with a ghost, someone half there, and she couldn't stand it anymore.

Striga tenses, mentally bracing again, remembering a nightmare where she tried to speak and nothing but a torrent of blood spilled out of her mouth. It's a dream she's had countless times, but it had carried a greater weight recently. But _Morana_...

"...I love you." it's rough around the edges, almost too quiet and timid, but the affect on Morana is profound, even over something so meek.

Morana shrinks around an abrupt, liberating breath, her body dipping forward to lean against Striga like before. "And I love you." she replies, her cracking voice half muffled in Striga's chest.

"I'm not ready." it takes work to get it out, but Striga manages. "I want to be...but not yet."

Morana pulls away as she nods, reluctantly withdrawing her hands and taking a half-step back. "I understand." she lifts her eyes and tries to cast a look of hope. "Then I will wait for you."

Striga nods, taking one of Morana's hands between both of hers, partly to make sure it still doesn't hurt to touch.

"Do take care of yourself until then? Until I can do my part?"

Another silent nod and a kiss to Morana's knuckle. It's enough.

_(IV)_

It happened suddenly, and Morana had no way of predicting it. She had expected something long and drawn out, agonizing to a point. But it was only two more nights before she found Striga waiting outside her door, still in just her trousers and coat, eyes soft and beckoning and submissive in a way.

"Could we go to our room?" she asks.

No hesitation. "Of course." Morana chances to extend her hand, an offering that she expects to be declined, but is visibly happy when Striga offers her forearm for Morana to take. This feels familiar, feels more like home, and Morana gradually relaxes as they walk together.

The distance feels longer than it actually is, but it doesn't feel wrong. There's a certain surface tension between them that Morana can sense, but she recognizes it for the little thing it is.

"Would you arrange a bath for us? And a meal?" Striga asks abruptly, though it sounds like something she meant to say.

"I'd be glad to." And mentally she is clinging to _us_ , hoping against hope that it means what she thinks it means. "Have you any other needs I could see to?"

Striga looks to her with a half-sure smile. "Not presently, aside from your company."

Warmth blossoms in Morana's chest, her hand gripping a little more tightly to her wife's arm. "May I ask,"

"Hm?"

"...Do you wish to talk about it? Any of it?" because she needed to know. She needed help in navigating this for Striga's sake.

It takes a long while for Striga to answer, the pair actually reaching the door to their shared chambers before she speaks again. "I have no desire for questions. Otherwise," she pauses long enough to open the door and encourage Morana across the threshold ahead of her. "We shall see."

Though they don't say so aloud, both of them sense each other's longing for this space, _their_ space. Striga wants a fire so she busies herself with the task, consciously reminding herself that she belongs here and she can do as she pleases. Morana doesn't appear to need the same reassurance as she goes about the room checking things -the linens are fresh and the room has been kept up with while they weren't using is, which is her expectation. Then she briefly departs to see to Striga's request for food and a bath.

They're mostly quiet during the interim, more so just readjusting to inhabiting the same space again like this -with Striga fully awake and aware. At least she appeared to be, even as she seems to aimlessly wander the room. In time that wandering made Morana antsy, and she gently suggests that they sit together around the hearth. Striga agrees with a nod and a smile, letting Morana take her hand and lead her along.

Though Striga seems willing and able to speak freely now, Morana doesn't press. She chooses to be content and simply absorb her wife's voluntarily, albeit silent attention. Part of her hopes that if she is patient, allows Striga time to find her comfort, that Striga would start to willingly open up. And if she doesn't, so be it. Morana felt like she was finally permitted to be here again, that she was once again welcome at Striga's side, that was more than enough after these last few long, despairing nights of feeling worse than alone.

Striga _is_ becoming steadily more relaxed, her universe feeling more complete as this time with Morana carries on, and she would openly admit it if she were posed the question, but she would also admit she is grateful for no questions at all. The idea of questions of any nature leaves a bad taste in her mouth and she would like for that _not_ to be. So she does her best to divide her attention between Morana in the chair across from her -was she hesitating to be close for a reason?- and the fire, which is just a reflexive tactic to pacify her mind and keep it quiet. After several silent cycles of her attention going back and forth, Striga decides she doesn't like their distance anymore.

Striga lifts her hand, the other propping beneath her jaw. "Won't you sit with me, my wife?"

Morana straightens, prim and proper in her seat, looking somewhat surprised. "I didn't want to assume," _that everything is back to normal._

"And while the consideration is appreciated, wouldn't you agree that we have been apart long enough?"

Morana answers with a toothy smile and rises from her seat, hoping she doesn't look too eager to climb into her wife's lap. They happily tangle about each other, Morana seated between Striga's powerful thighs and Striga's head resting against Morana's chest, Morana's arms about her neck and hands in her hair, gently stroking. One hand eventually drifts low to fan across the center of Striga's half bare chest, just resting there and feeling out her heartbeat -inhumanly slow, but steady.

Striga feels herself slipping almost immediately and doesn't resist. Losing her grasp of time and presence to something so sweet was hardly worth fighting with. It is a good change, to be honest. Instead of feeling like the ground beneath her was giving way to a yawning, absolute blackness, this is more like being adrift in a still pond, confident that someone is watching over you to be sure you didn't float away. Morana is her safe harbor.

"Would you like me to put your hair up? For the bath?"

Striga just rumbles her consent, mentally chasing the soft, soothing rasp of Morana's voice by kissing her throat and squeezing her waist a little tighter. Morana's responding giggle, light and breathy, makes Striga smirk against her skin.

Their bath is drawn and their dinner is laid out on the small common table and for a short moment they debate which to do first. In the end they agree a cold meal is far better than a cold bath. Striga is quick to shrug out of her coat and trousers and drape them over the chair, indulging a full body stretch before climbing into the tub. After the wonderful heat seeps in, pulls the tension out of her like unraveling thread, she realizes that something isn't quite right just yet.

"Won't you join me?"

"Oh," Morana seems to start slightly, genuinely surprised at the offer. "I...yes, of course. As I said earlier," she clears her throat and pushes a non-existent stray hair behind her long, pointed ear. "I didn't want to assume."

Striga shifts, folding her arms along the lip of the tub and props her chin where they intersect. "My love,"

Her hands pause, halfway through putting up her hair. "Hm?"

She's sure to smile, to offer reassurance that she can sense her wife needs. "I would ask that you treat tonight as any other, if you can. It would be a great comfort to me."

"Oh." she says again as realization both brightens and softens her face. "I see, then I shall try."

Striga's smile grows with a soft hum, shows a touch of approval. "Would you wash me?"

"Of course."

Not washing, exactly. Striga is clean enough, of course, but it's more so the act that she wants as opposed to the purpose. Morana's touch was always slow, deliberate, thoughtful, and Striga found it wonderfully soothing. At present she hopes it could help ground her further, to help her accept that this is home and she is safe here and that she made it out alive and-

"Lie back," Morana gently commands, taking Striga's weight against her as well as a moment to just savor the stretch of her arms around Striga's barreled chest. She kisses Striga's temple, enjoys the responding press of Striga's cheek into her jaw, then she sets the cloth aside. "May I have your hands?"

Striga silently offers them up, smiling mostly to herself as Morana holds them, seeming to inspect them. Morana traces the creases in Striga's palms with the pads of her fingers before sliding them to match Striga's much larger hand as best she can. Then their fingers lace and close together, Striga crossing her arms that Morana might embrace her as she rests her head on Morana's shoulder.

Morana lets them linger like this for a short while, silent and secure, just together, before she says "...I know you do not wish for questions. I'm not going to convince you otherwise...but, perhaps you would be willing to listen?"

Striga takes a deep breath, a leisurely thing. "Of course, by all means."

Morana kisses her temple again, a sign of gratitude as she tries to wrestle the words in her head into the correct order. "I...I don't think I have ever been more afraid than I have been these last few nights. I believe conspiring to kill the king had been _far_ less stressful."

Striga feels her heart still briefly, sinking, but she ultimately understands. One of her hands tighten on Morana's, then she closes her eyes and takes a breath, this one much shorter and quieter than the last. She's chancing to think back to the night this mess began, the mundane routine shattered with misfortune. She isn't even certain in her own mind exactly what happened, only that it had been quick and chaotic.

"I was terrified." Morana's throat has tightened and it shows in her voice. "That is no small feat."

"I know." And she does. Striga knows damn good and well that her wife is just as courageous as any warrior she had ever killed, if not ten times more so. For Morana to feel anything resembling fear, the matter would have to be truly perilous.

Morana slowly curls against Striga's back, like she's trying to wrap herself around her in order to both protect her and to give herself a place to hide. Morana has no shame in being vulnerable, especially with Striga, but this is something deeper than that. This is a raw, pounding wound that left her limping.

Striga's her heart swells with Morana's love and worry, but also breaks with it.

"The night before we found you...felt like the longest night of my life. I don't think I had ever cried so much." she stops, swallows thickly, then forces the next few words. "I thought I had lost you." Because territory was being searched _again_ and scrying rituals were being performed and they weren't yielding results fast enough.

Striga wants to reassure her, encourage her, as per her usual reflex. It's what she would always tell herself - _you made it out, everything is fine, it could have been worse_ \- but she knew better than to offer such platitudes to her. Morana held her care for Striga in exceptionally high regard, and that would be recognized, not glossed over for the sake of comfort -her own or anyone's.

Morana's tangle of limbs around Striga tightens again. "I missed you so." and it's barely above a whisper. Any louder and surely they would both hear the tears.

Striga happily accepts the pressure that now borders on too much. Not enough to hurt, but to worry. "And I you, my lady. At least," she hesitates, wondering if she should, "...I missed you whenever my mind was my own. When I could."

Morana's natural instinct is to ask questions, it always has been and likely always will be, but she physically bites her tongue to stop herself.

"I know I haven't shown it very well." Striga continues casually, almost like it's an afterthought.

"How do you mean?"

"...I've been all but neglecting you, in spite of you taking such tender care of me."

"Striga," Morana admonishes, "how could..."

"You are my wife," she says flatly, "I shouldn't be a burden for you to begin with, then to push you away on top of that,"

Morana silently frowns, more so scowls at her, a steady knot of frustration winding when Striga won't look at her and simply lounges the way she is. She shrugs and rests her cheek against Striga's hair, waiting for that knot to unwind before saying. "When will you believe that you could never be a burden to me? I know I have told you numerous times,"

"Yes, I know."

"Then why can't you-,"

"Because this was different." Striga interrupts again as gently as she can. She has to get it now or she wouldn't have been able to say anything. "It is one thing to return from a hard fought battle. This...was not that. You shouldn't have had to see me that way...see me broken as I was."

"Striga, you weren't-,"

" _I couldn't even speak to you_ ." her tone sharpens and the water shifts with the sudden pop of tension in her body. "My wife, my dearest love, and you had to _beg_ me for even a small utterance. And then I still couldn't stand to do anything but fucking hide from you." and that _hurts_ to say out loud. Morana is her safe place, her refuge just as she had declared in their wedding vows, and Striga had been unable to face her from the vantage point of being a pile of pieces on the ground. She had felt much too weak, and the shame she feels now is throttling.

They're silent for a moment after that. They could both sense the wound airing out here, and knew they needed to let it. Morana can feel Striga's pulse has picked up; she's waiting for a reaction of some kind.

"You're too proud sometimes, you know?"

Apparently that wasn't the response Striga had anticipated, as she said nothing but turned in Morana's arms to look at her curiously.

"Not that it isn't well earned." Morana assures her quickly. "But you don't always have to be, especially around me."

Striga shrugs and turns away, settling back into her previous position. "Morana,"

"No, I think you should listen a little longer." she counters softly. "The promises we made to each other, to be patient, faithful," the pad of one of her smallest fingers shifts, finding the smooth surface of Striga's ring to stroke thoughtfully. " _Trusting_...do you not trust me?"

"Of course I do."

"Then why would you challenge that by insisting that you must hide your pain from me? I know you need your solitude, to find your own peace at times, but...would letting me help bring you so much shame?"

"Never."

"Am I not, as your wife, inclined to comfort you? We promised each other,"

"I know, but," she expects Morana to stop her again, but she doesn't, and Striga realizes she actually doesn't have anything to follow up with. Morana does eventually shrug over her shoulder, her head resting against Striga's.

"If it would shame you, then let me see it. Let me try to soothe it along with your other pains. Please, because my love for you would not permit me to do any less."

Striga's heart lurches hard behind her ribs, the pounding acute and tangibly painful. That pain surges up into her throat where it thickens, constricts, and then there's heat in her face that she doesn't know how to suppress. Mercy, she actually starts crying. She isn't entirely sure why, over what exactly, but the tears come all the same.

Maybe she couldn't cast aside her pride for her own sake. But she could do that for Morana. She would do anything for her.

To Morana, this feels different than when she held Striga in that cave. Those tears had been a necessity; her mind was free and she could finally feel and have a reaction to the absolutely brutal torture she had endured, like a dam breaking. But this, this was something raw, a purging, digging something up to expose and expel. This was an acknowledgment, giving proper time and attention to something so it could move on. And Morana was there to hold Striga through it, even as Striga buries her face in her big hands when the worst of the sobs start ripping free of her. Morana wraps her up, tethering, absorbing her wife's heart wrenching, shuddering cries. At some point Striga sits up and twists around, tears still rolling hot down her cheeks as she gathers Morana in her arms and squeezes tightly. Morana can only think to respond in kind, ankles locking at the small of Striga's back with her arms about her neck. Striga's powerful arms are about her waist and almost tight enough to hurt, but Morana doesn't mind. She welcomes the pain if that's what it takes.

When the bloodletting ends the air feels lighter, at least somewhat different. Striga seems to sink, her grip gradually lessening around Morana as her spine bends and she somewhat folds inward. Morana takes her face gently in her hands, waits until Striga's eyes meet hers before saying anything, starting with soft questions followed by even softer assurances. Morana helps her out of the tub when she asks, and doesn't argue when she doesn't ask for a towel but only to be near the fire. Striga says she doesn't feel up to eating, but will yield when Morana encourages her to at least have a drink, a necessity they share quietly by the hearth with bare bodies bathed in shades of gold. There's room in the big chair, but Morana is content to sit at Striga's feet, maintaining a careful watch over her.

They eventually drift on to the bed -never mind how dawn is hours away yet, and there's a change in the air again when Striga asks for Morana to untie her hair. It's a familiar, grounding ritual that Morana takes as a cue to finally relax, that her watch is over and now they can simply be with each other again, no longer sharing themselves with the hurt. They come together against the pillows, Morana pulling the blankets up and propping on her elbow to face Striga as she settles heavily on her back. Striga looks exhausted but softer now, the fatigue is earned and not just a side effect of the events over the last few nights. And something about it is different in how it was fatigue that Morana had helped her to find -perhaps it was easier to let Morana see it now.

Striga pulls Morana to her, Morana's hands half bracing on her chest. Striga smooths her hand across Morana's cheek and feels her heart clutch as she eagerly leans into it.

"I don't deserve you." Striga rasps, her throat still a bit wrecked from crying.

Morana simply smiles, eyes closed as she revels in her wife's touch. "Yet here I am."

"Hm." the sound is neutral, but leans towards something good. She eases her hand further back, the backs of her fingers tracing the slope of her cheekbone, tracing Morana's ear to nudge the signet ring near its end. Then her hand gently cups the slope where her neck and skull meet, giving the gentlest tug. "Kiss me?"

Morana happily yields to the request, rather certain it had been far too long since they had kissed last. It is both a sating and stirring thing, but neither of them choose to chase the heat hidden between their lips. Even as Striga slips her tongue between them, Morana taking it gratefully, it is more a feeling of reunion than arousal. There would be time for that later, perhaps tomorrow night, after they had rested and fully accepted that all is well again.

"I love you." Striga whispers against Morana's mouth. "Thank you." For anything, everything.

"And I love you." And she accepts Striga's gratitude with another kiss before settling down at her side, her head on Striga's chest that she might listen to her lingering heartbeat until it stops with sleep.

Author's Note:  this was wholly self-indulgent, without real reason other to make my brain go weee, and to make the wives be soft to each other. It feels like hot garbage, but it's my hot garbage.


End file.
